“That is impossible.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know where she is now.”
“Oh dear! suppose she was lost!”
Henriette’s eyes were full of tears; she looked at me as she asked that question. Poor child! if she had known how she hurt me! I did not know how to comfort her. If Eugénie had returned, I felt sure that she would have asked to see her child; and I should never have denied her that satisfaction. But I heard nothing of her. Ernest and his wife never mentioned her to me, and although their silence was beginning to vex me, I did not choose to be the first to speak of Eugénie; besides, it was quite possible that they had heard no more from her than I had.
Henriette was still looking at me; impatient at my failure to answer, she exclaimed at last:
“Why, papa, what are you thinking about?”
“About you, my child.”
“I asked you if my poor mamma was lost, and you didn’t say anything. And Monsieur Eugène never asks about his mamma! That is naughty! He’s a hardhearted little wretch!”
Eugène looked at his sister with a shamefaced air, then began to call out to me as if he were reciting complimentary verses: